(Diakopton is the town on the Athens - Patra run where you can catch
the cog railway that winds up to Kalavryta.)

The politician's music blares
from a stand across the street
as the 6:47 ebbs to a stop,
late in the dusk.

The woman
in the black leather skirt speaks no English.
Life's patina shines mellow in her intelligent, hard face.
Today ascending to Kalavryta
I watched her stony-faced holding her narrow ground
against the interrogation of coarse-whiskered men,
and wished the gorge was not between us.

Now she is close
next on the unyielding bench
drawing the chirping youth
eager girls for her radiant blessing.
Now she rises to board
for Egio or Patra.
Now I am alone.

People wander across the tracks
the engineer in yellow knit shirt
slides to the ground,
dodges the children
walks to the baggage car
his orange, years-battered diesels
left to unrhythmically pant,
radiator vents banging open and shut.

Friends on the unjourneying ground
crane to speak to passengers,
lightly touching the welded cars
but the woman for Egio stares ahead
unseeing, alone.

A blare of horn and lights,
and in full darkness
the Athens express
creeps into town from the west
scattering the dogs and children.
The local's engineer sprints for his cab.